


ghosts and devils

by bonebo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amputation, Gore, How Jesse McCree lost his arm maybe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 03:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10688526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: ikkanrana:just saw that mccree has a deadlock tattoo on his left arm in the blackwatch skin, maybe someone Removed The Whole Thing later on because he no longer was “worthy of the brand”i mean if youre gang branded i dont think the gang you left (circumstances can be discussed in mccrees case since i mean… they got captured lmao.. didnt just stand up and walk away) would enjoy you parading around with their tattoo showing….so maybe deadlock justremoveditfor him





	ghosts and devils

Jesse McCree hasn’t seen the rust-red sands of New Mexico in almost four years.

It feels like longer--feels like a lifetime has passed since he was running with the Rebels, a scared kid with no choice but to live hand to mouth, fighting to see through each day when life and death both balanced on a hairpin trigger.

It seems a rather poetic irony that now, ages later, the gun’s pointed back at him.

“Well, if it ain’t Jesse _fucking_ McCree.” Rhaestin’s voice is just as ugly-sounding as Jesse remembers, made hoarse and gravelly by years of chainsmoking, by the gunshot that nicked his throat a year before Deadlock descended upon Santa Fe. His hands are rough, palm calloused as it tightens around the back of McCree’s neck, forces his head down between his shoulders; McCree squirms in the wooden chair he’s bound to, and grinds his teeth against the kerchief tied between them. “All decked out in some fancy new clothes, workin’ for the good guys now...but still too stupid to keep yourself outta trouble, ain’t you, runt?”

McCree growls in response; he knows there is no love lost between them, knows Rhaestin hated him from the day he wound up on Deadlock’s doorstep. He can remember the happy little glint in the man’s eye, when he held McCree by his shoulders all those years ago and made him watch what happened to members of Deadlock who were caught after they deserted--can remember the stench of their flesh burning, the screams as they were flayed alive, inked skin peeled away from unworthy muscle to the tune of, _“You don’t deserve to wear this mark, anymore.”_

He can remember Rhaestin’s laugh, and how it made his skin crawl. He tells himself he’s a man now, a government agent raised on stuff sterner than Deadlock could ever hope to be, no longer some scared kid surrounded by the demons his mama warned him about--he’s got Blackwatch behind him, he tells himself, a force stronger than God himself in a man called Reyes at his side.

The thoughts do nothing to slow the descent of Rhaestin’s knife. They do not temper the pain of blade cleaving bone.

McCree screams--writhes and fights the ropes that hold his arms to the chair, stares down in dazed horror at the bleeding, gory mess of his left arm. It’s tan skin split and the flash of white bone through pulsing wet muscle, all awash in dark crimson; Rhaestin’s fingers are coated in it, his hands slipping in all the blood as he grabs McCree’s arm and _twists_ \--

The elbow joint snaps. McCree can hear it under the ringing of his shriek, a wet crack that echoes through his head like a gunshot; can see it, bared as it is, see the way his radius pops free of the cartilage’s hold to bob in the air like a cattail. He feels sick with the sight and the agony of it, and the pain of Rhaestin cutting free any lingering scraps of flesh and sinew that hold his arm together comes almost like an afterthought.

“You’re not worthy of this brand,” Rhaestin snarls, and Jesse thinks he can hear the thud of his severed arm colliding with the floor nearby under his voice. He swallows down a sudden rush of nausea, and blinks through the tears that streak his cheeks. “Never were. You may have sucked Boss’s cock well enough to earn your keep but I know what you are--just some lowlife mutt, too dumb to do anything but lay on your back and whine.” His bloody knife comes up to rest under McCree’s jaw, pressing teasingly against the frantic swallow of his stubbled throat. “Should I kill you, McCree? I have my orders, but...maybe I’m as bad at following them as you are…?”

McCree stares up at him--the scars on Rhaestin’s face are blurry through his tears, but the grin stands out, just as sadistic as McCree remembers--and holds his breath, loathe to feel the scrape of the knife against his throat again. He tells himself he’s going to die and wonders if his time with Blackwatch, the years he’s spent doing good, are enough to wash away all the blood on his hands.

He rather doubts it.


End file.
